


Surrender These Hands (Heal This Heart)

by whenshewrites



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But Jaskier Puts Him Back Together, Geralt Deserves Nice Things, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is a Nice Thing, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sometimes the White Wolf Breaks, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whump, dammit, let them be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24242167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites
Summary: The thing is, Geralt hasn’t ever… done this before. It's strangely human.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 804





	Surrender These Hands (Heal This Heart)

The thing is, Geralt hasn’t ever… done this before.

Of course, he’s seen it. He saw it a few weeks ago when he told a young mother that her little boy had been among the bodies in the Bruxa’s lair. He’d seen it when Jaskier sang one of his sadder love songs and one of the tavern drunks started reminiscing about his late wife. Geralt had seen it when he pulled a little girl from a house of burning flames and held her back as the screams inside faded to nothing.

Geralt had seen it done before. But he’d never done it himself.

It was strangely human.

Jaskier must have noticed there was something off because the fucking bard wouldn’t leave him alone. Geralt didn’t want to talk— he usually didn’t— but he really didn’t want to talk today. He wanted to drink a few mugs of beer, fuck the softest woman in the inn, and then go to sleep.

But Jaskier wouldn’t leave him alone. And maybe Geralt didn’t want those things after all.

The bard always knew when something was wrong with him.

“Geralt, you’ve been acting strange all day,” Jaskier said, following him up to their room. “And don’t even try to tell me everything’s okay. I know it’s not and I don’t appreciate you lying to me.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt muttered, shoving through the door. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving you alone like this,” Jaskier said. “Something is  _ wrong.” _

“Nothing is wrong,” Geralt said, throwing his bag and swords on the closest bed. “Fuck off, bard. I’m tired.”

“Well, maybe I am too.”

“Go sing some songs or fuck some women.”

“Well, I never,” Jaskier said, sounding offended. “Is that really all you think I do, witcher? Sing songs and fuck women? What about the men? And the time it takes to write songs in between singing them?”

“I don’t care,” Geralt grunted. “Go somewhere else and do it.”

Jaskier made another couple of offended noises. They were mainly squawks and gasps, and Geralt had heard them all before. Not recently, if he thought about it, but that’s because he’d started to… tolerate the bard. Or something. But Jaskier was making them again now. “You are being rude!”

“Is that a surprise.”

Jaskier didn’t answer. Geralt finished unbuckling his armor and chucked it to the floor, glaring over at the bard. To his surprise, Jaskier was watching him strangely.

“What.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Yes, bard, you’ve said that already.”

“No,” Jaskier said, moving forward. “Something is wrong, Geralt. With you. Have you been hit with a spell? Has someone cursed you? Oh my goddess, are you dying?”

“I’m not dying,” Geralt growled. “I just want to be alone.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said softly. His eyes were too gentle— too kind. “You don’t mean that.”

And suddenly, it was the mountaintop all over again. It was Jaskier's broken expression and the pain in his eyes as he shook his head, Geralt’s words of  _ ‘if life could give me one blessing’  _ washing over him. It was  _ ‘that’s not fair’  _ and Geralt couldn’t take it. Because he did mean it. Or at least, he wanted to.

“Jaskier, leave me the fuck alone!”

The bard visibly flinched back. Geralt wondered if he’d been thinking the same thing— about those words on the mountaintop. Something Geralt had never really apologized for but he thought about far too often. Jaskier stared for a moment longer before nodding, a pained smile twisting at his lips. “Should I leave the tavern, Geralt? Or just the room?”

Geralt growled and turned away. When Jaskier didn’t move, he threw a dark glance over his shoulder. “The room, bard.”

“Very well, then,” Jaskier said, picking up his lute. “I shall be nearby. Singing… or fucking, I suppose. Since you know me so well.”

Geralt looked away. He heard the sound of the door open and close.

And then he was left alone in the silence. It wouldn’t be the first time and Geralt supposed he should enjoy this. It’s what he demanded after all. The silence and the surrounding emptiness of the room, so heavy, it could crush him under its weight.

Geralt moved over to one of the beds and sunk down on the edge. He didn’t feel… good about it. Just empty.

“Fuck,” Geralt said, burying his face in his hands.

* * *

Jaskier knew something was wrong.  He wasn’t an idiot. 

Because yes, Geralt was often monosyllabic and hard to read, but Jaskier had gotten a handle on him over the years. Geralt’s eyebrows were very expressive when he wanted them to be and his grunts were a language of their own. Jaskier knew something was wrong.

But Geralt wouldn’t let him help.

Jaskier went downstairs determined to play for a bit— sing away his frustrations, perhaps— but his emotions ended up messing with his head and he was booed off stage after only two songs. Which might be fair, he supposed. Drunks didn’t want to hear sorrowful laments or requiems when they were trying to drink themselves to happiness. 

Jaskier thought about going back upstairs. But he didn’t think Geralt wanted to see him.

Jaskier didn’t understand  _ why.  _ Three days ago, his witcher had been fine. He’d slain a Kikimore and with the coin earned, they’d eaten well that night. Two days ago, he’d been a little grumpier than usual, but Jaskier had chalked that up to not enough sleep. Yesterday, Geralt had been quiet— but he was always quiet— and a little growly. Jaskier thought it was a monthly witcher thing. Perhaps they got their grunts and growls in a greater number on certain days.

But today was… different. 

Geralt had woken up quiet and distant, and he’d barely acknowledged Roach when she’d spent the entire day shoving her face into his neck and stamping her hooves nervously. They’d traveled all day and Jaskier had tried to play some music to cheer things up, but Geralt glared whenever Jaskier strummed a chord. And when they’d entered town, Geralt had let the stablehand take Roach. The  _ stablehand.  _ Geralt never let anyone touch his horse but himself and sometimes Jaskier. On a good day.

Something was wrong and it frustrated Jaskier because he didn’t know what. And he didn’t know how to find out what.

He was tempted to drink away his sorrows but by his second mug of beer, Jaskier just wasn’t feeling it. He ordered another plate of food and grabbed his lute when it arrived, taking the plate and starting toward the stairs. Geralt might be grumpy, but he had to eat. And they were sharing a room. The witcher couldn’t hide forever.

Jaskier didn’t know what he expected to walk into. But a fragile-looking Geralt sitting huddled in the corner with his face in his hands was not it.

“... Geralt?” Jaskier said, setting the plate on a side table. He noticed a half-drunk bottle of whiskey sitting on the floor next to the witcher— Jaskier didn’t even know when he’d gotten his hands on  _ that.  _ Carefully, he took a step forward. “Geralt, are you sure you’re not dying?”

Geralt looked up and Jaskier was shocked to see red rimming around his eyes. Jaskier had seen the witcher in a dozen states before; murderous when fighting. Amused when Jaskier managed to get through his shell of grunts and grumps. Even a little sad when they’d delivered Ciri to Yennifer and the witch had promised to teach her how to control her gifts. But he’d never seen the witcher like this.

He’d never seen Geralt… crying.

Jaskier didn’t know what to do. He stood shock-still for a moment.

“What, bard,” Geralt said, voice a little raspy. His eyes were glazed over and Jaskier was surprised he wasn’t yelling. That’s the reaction he would have expected. But instead, Geralt just looked defeated. Like he hadn’t expected to be caught, but he was too tired to care.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said softly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Fuck off.”

But Jaskier was determined not to leave this time. He crossed the room and sank down in front of Geralt, studying his face. Geralt looked… broken. His lips were pulled back in an irritated growl but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. His hair was frayed like he’d been running his hands through it and the circles around his eyes were both black and red at the same time.

Geralt looked at him silently. Jaskier sat down and swallowed nervously.

“Geralt, did something happen?”

Geralt only grunted and reached for the bottle. Jaskier caught his hand before he could grab it, though, and pulled it away; he was surprised when Geralt didn’t fight. The witcher’s hands trembled minutely underneath his touch. “Fuck off, bard.”

“Geralt, I know I’m missing something,” Jaskier said. “But I can’t help if you won’t tell me.”

“I don’t need help,” Geralt said. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Geralt, you’re…”  _ crying.  _ Jaskier didn’t know how to put that into words. But like Geralt knew what he was trying to say, he flinched. Jaskier’s heart twisted.

“I want to be alone.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” Jaskier said. “So you might as well talk.”

“Bard—”

“Geralt,  _ talk _ to me.”

Geralt glared at him. For a moment, Jaskier thought he was going to start yelling or get up and leave, but then the witcher looked away. Jaskier realized he was still holding his hand and started to let go when Geralt caught his sleeve. Trembling fingers curled into the blue material. 

Jaskier barely dared breathe.

“I don’t… know why,” Geralt said. “It hasn’t happened before.”

“What hasn’t happened before?”

Geralt glared at the floor. A tear slid down his cheek and Jaskier’s throat tightened. He moved a little closer. Carefully, as if he was trying not to startle a scared animal.

“Crying, Geralt?”

“I’m not crying,” Geralt snarled. “I don’t. Witchers don’t.”

Jaskier stared at him for a moment. Then he reached out and brushed the tear away, drawing back with a wetness on his thumb. Geralt glowered. 

“I’m not,” the witcher repeated. “It doesn’t happen.”

“Geralt, it does happen. To everyone.”

“Not to me!”

Jaskier drew back. There was a sudden wildness in Geralt’s expression and his eyes flashed. They were vibrant gold in the fading light and his teeth were bared in a snarl. Jaskier swallowed. “Then what’s causing it?”

“What.”

“What happened?” Jaskier said. “I’ve been at your side for the past four days, Geralt, have I missed something? Was there more to the Kikimore fight that you didn’t tell me about? Did—”

Geralt looked away. Jaskier wet his lips.

“Geralt, I’m your friend. Won’t you talk to me?”

“It… hurts.”

Jaskier searched him up and down, but there were no external signs of injury. Sure, Jaskier knew the Kikimore had gotten him across the back during their fight, but that wound had healed by now. Geralt’s lips twisted and visibly hunched into himself.

“It hurts.”

Jaskier looked at his witcher and, with a feeling like a pit in his stomach, he realized what hurt. Why now, why today, why he’d never seen it before, he didn’t know. But Jaskier thought he knew what hurt. 

“Oh, goddess,” Jaskier said quietly. “Geralt, why didn’t you tell me before? I would never— I would never leave you alone.”

Geralt didn’t look at him. Jaskier leaned forward and placed a gentle hand against his chest, splayed over where he could feel the steady beat of a human heart. No matter what the stories might say.

“My dear witcher,” Jaskier said. “Where does it hurt?”

_Where did it hurt?_ Now wasn’t that the question? Geralt closed his eyes and melted into the touch and, realizing he might not get an answer, Jaskier moved to his side and leaned up against the witcher’s shoulder, turning to look at him. Geralt sighed and leaned closer, the faintest tremble in his breaths. 

Where did it hurt. _Where did it not?_

* * *

The thing is, Geralt hasn’t ever… done this before. None of it.

Of course, he’s seen it done in the past. He saw it the first time he killed a man; not a monster. One who left a woman beaten and bloodied, face stained with tears. He saw it when a father begged him for help killing a beast that had dragged his daughter away, something animalistic in his pleas. He saw in Jaskier’s eyes when Geralt had sent him away on the mountain top, the words  _ ‘that’s not fair’  _ echoing over and over again in his mind.

Geralt had seen it done before, but he’d never done it himself. Not until now.

It was strangely human.

They sat in silence as Jaskier traced gentle fingers over the back of Geralt’s hand, arms wrapped around his shoulders. Geralt didn’t make any noise as he felt wetness escape his eyes and trickle down his cheeks. He didn’t make a sound as he stared at the floor, wondering how he’d ever become so human. 

Geralt thought it might be because of Jaskier. It was the little things at first; carrying an actual conversation, offering a smile whenever Jaskier was particularly witty. It was harder to pretend that things didn’t matter when Jaskier could see right through him and it was easier to play the part of human when Jaskier was around. So much so, Geralt sometimes wondered if he was playing a part anymore at all.

Jaskier was singing softly and his other hand traced through Geralt’s hair. Geralt felt like a child being comforted. He imagined this is what that would feel like, at least. He doesn’t remember enough of his old life to remember if he was ever comforted.

It was this day years ago that his first life ended and his other one began, Geralt knew. He didn’t know how he was so certain, but he felt it like a tug in his chest that sent him back so many years ago. It’d been coming for days now; the feeling like he was being pulled closer and closer to the edge of something he didn’t understand. Then he’d woken up this morning and known it was here. It— this— everything— was here. Geralt couldn’t fight his mind like he could fight monsters.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmured, the words slipping out. Jaskier’s ministrations paused for a moment and the bard clicked his tongue.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Geralt.”

That was a lie; they both knew it. But before Geralt could say another word, Jaskier’s grip tightened, and the words died in his throat. He had a lot to apologize for, but maybe tonight wasn’t the right time for it.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Geralt said instead. Jaskier’s touches trembled minutely.

“Never, dear witcher.”

“It hurts.”

“I know,” Jaskier whispered. “But I’m here.”

Because see, Geralt hasn’t ever… done this before. But he didn’t try to fight it now. And the surrender was less painful than he’d expected as he fell apart in Jaskier’s arms and the bard sang softly to put him back together. It was quietly loving.

It was strangely human.

**Author's Note:**

> Angst-o-mighty, I couldn't help myself. I've fallen headfirst into the Witcher fandom and hurt/comfort is my favorite thing to write, ever. Of courses, the comments and support you guys leave makes my day. 
> 
> Come hang with me on Tumblr?  
> [here](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)


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